Fancy That
by J-J-Sawyer-Phillips
Summary: Set immediately after the events of 3.01, Emma's upset because she thinks he's challenging her authority; Killian just wants to demonstrate how glad he is that she's alive.


"_Help me find my son, or get out of my way."_

In truth, the lass made a valid point; the whole purpose of this venture was to rescue the boy. What would be the purpose behind it all if they didn't do absolutely everything in their collective powers to succeed? Surely Regina and the Prince understood that there were casualties in a war, necessary evils that must be embraced in order to secure victory. He just hopes that one of those evils doesn't come as close again as it did during the storm. Even walking through the jungle, following the flash of moonlit gold, he still can't repress the residual terror when his mind's eye watches her jump overboard again and again. Seconds before, he was consumed with a nearly unparalleled rage and desire to kill Charming; but he'd been watching her movements—he always watches her, can't take his bloody eyes off the infuriating woman! And then she dove into the sea, as if just to spite them all for their petty bickering.

But then the winch plummeted into the waters after her, placing her in even graver danger than before. He could have sworn that he had no heart left, but clearly the organ in question had been alive and well up to that point. It had lurched painfully, and every nerve in his body was suddenly on fire to jump in to go save her. Gods know he might just have done it if her father hadn't beaten him to it; as Captain, he knew he had to stay on the ship, that they'd all be doomed if they lost both him and Emma. But his heart…His heart is cursing him for a fool and a damned idiot! He'd offered her his ship AND his services without really questioning his motivations too closely. However, her little swim provided him with an all too clear answer. Rather like the blade she threatened him with when they first met, she's managed to cut through all the years' worth of painful scars and walls he's surrounded himself with.

He refuses to give it a name, this painful churning in his very soul at the taunting reminder that he almost lost his Swan. His footsteps falter on that thought, causing Regina to bump into him and curse his clumsiness. He lets her pass, more than willing to hide his own shock in the shadows, as far distant from the object of his musings as possible. No doubt if she heard him even _mentally_ refer to her in any sort of possessive tense, she'd have him skewered and gibbeted faster than a pixie's wink. Yet it is impossible to deny that Emma has always brought out a bit of the protector in him. Clearly the lass is more than able to fight and win her own battles, and she's sharper than most; but he can tell that she's been pushing and fighting her whole life, and cruel fate has given her yet another task to complete, yet another giant to face. He knows the feeling—more importantly, he knows precisely how cold and lonely it can be when you're the one everyone is looking to for answers.

And just like that, his thoughts are back to the chill that gripped his chest when David finally hauled her up onto the deck of the Roger. She wasn't breathing and looked pale as a corpse. He couldn't breathe, couldn't form any rational idea beyond the constant denial—she _couldn't_ be dead, she _couldn't_ be gone, _she couldn't leave him like this_! His relief had given way to this quiet back and forth, from wanting to scream and rage at her stupidity to simply watching her move and breathe and be alive. Those few agonizing seconds had aged him far more than all the years he'd spent in Neverland before. It was pure, unadulterated madness to try reaching them all in that way! Only made worse by the fact that it worked; once they'd ceased arguing and trading blows, once they were united toward a common goal in saving her, the storm had died to nothing. Granted, his ship had been damaged even more in the process, but somehow the Jolly Roger's wounds seem to him a small price to pay so long as Emma never frightens him like that again.

He notices that they've outstripped his contemplative pace, but thankfully they can't have gotten too far ahead of him. Unfortunately, when he enters the clearing that Emma has decided to use as campsite for the evening, his absence has been noted and commented on already. Her eyes lock on him instantly and all but spit fire. She finishes whatever conversation she was having with the others and furiously stalks over to him, taking hold of his right arm in a grip just shy of bruising. "May I speak with you?"

"At your service, my lady. And although I quite enjoy being manhandled by you, love, it's quite unnecessary; don't want the other troops to get jealous now." She fumes silently as they march further into the jungle. He's not quite sure what she has to complain about, but he knows Swan well enough that she'll be unable to contain her anger much longer. In about three, two…Emma rounds to face him. He tries not to grin at how well he can read her, but apparently he fails.

"First of all, when I said I would be your leader, I meant it. When you got in line and followed, you agreed to that, yes? Well then I need you to toe that line, Jones! If Regina even catches a whiff, a tiny odor of insubordination, then she is going to pack up her magic bag of tricks and leave us. Now, I don't know about you, but I know that I'll sleep better at night knowing that we have a magic user in this godforsaken hell-hole! So, no questioning my orders, no little acts of rebellion like falling behind!"

The many layers of irony about Emma Swan lecturing him regarding the chain of command and insubordination certainly do not escape him. But despite it being just the two of them, he takes her words with the seriousness they deserve. "My apologies, Swan. I was lost in thought; it was careless and stupid, but rest assured that it won't happen again."

She gapes at him awkwardly, almost as if she was expecting a fight from him over taking orders from a woman. "Right. Well, see that it doesn't. And second, what the hell was that back there?"

"Much has happened in the past 24 hours, lass. Would you care to be specific, or shall I guess?"

Apparently, his quota of sass for the day hasn't been reached yet. "On the beach. Saying that you "fancy" me, in front of my parents. What does that even mean by the way? And if it's some sick, perverted-"

He steps right into her personal space, eyes bright with something she can't, or won't, name. "It means, love, that I enjoy being around you, that your mere presence somehow makes the world around me brighter, that knowing you are near brings with it the simple, pure kind of pleasure that I haven't known in centuries; it means that I respect the hell out of you, because only you could make three royals and a pirate Captain follow in your train with a pithy speech and a snap of your fingers, Swan; it means that that infuriating stunt you pulled by diving off my ship drove me mad with worry, and that I couldn't breathe, love, when your father pulled you up out of the sea. If there's one lesson I've learned in all of my wretched existence, it's that you don't wait until the timing is perfect—if you see something or someone you want, then by the gods, you don't hesitate. And I don't know what spell you've cast over me, Emma, but I'll follow you into hell if you ask it of me. Just don't bloody ever scare me like that again! I can't lose you!"

By the time his words run out, he's shaking her with hand and hook on her shoulders, fear a noticeable presence in his eyes. "Hook, I…"

"No, lass. Call me Killian; call me Jones if you must, but not that! You named me a pirate, not a villain. I'll probably wear this infernal thing for the rest of my life, but let it be a name of fear preying on my enemies' minds. Don't make me hear it for your lips, flung at me like the curse it is. Please."

It's the truth and sincerity ringing in every word that has her speechless. He's _terrified_ of losing her; he's _choosing_ to let go of the past and his hatred, _for her_; and the timing _isn't_ perfect, but without pushing her for more, he's laying his cards out on the table. He's being as transparent with his desires as he possibly can, without trying to force her hand in any way. He wants her to choose him because _she_ wants to, and no other reasoning will be acceptable to him. So for once in her life, Emma stops thinking things to death and chooses to feel, chooses to no longer be blind to what is right in front of her. She places her hands to his cheeks, tilting his face so she can see his eyes better. "Shh. Hey, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I scared you, and it'll take getting used to, but I'll try and remember to call you by your real name."

She really only meant to press her forehead to his…honestly. But there was just something so vulnerable, so needy and desperate about the look in his eyes; and other than when fighting him at Lake Nostos, she's never been close enough to really notice just how sensual and inviting his lips are. _One kiss couldn't hurt, could it?_ She closes her eyes first, so he sees her lips part in a breathy sigh before softly pressing against his. It's as ethereal as a dream, with a pleasure just as elusive; she both hears and feels the whimper that breaks from his throat, knowing that he would rather be tortured by his own contained desire for her than push her into something she doesn't want. Only, that one kiss isn't enough for Emma; it only served to tantalize, to whet her appetite, to set her whole body on fire for Killian.

"What are you waiting for, Jones? A monogrammed invitation?" His hand and hook slide to her lower back, pulling her into his body with a low growl. She meets a hard, hot wall of muscled chest and thighs, hidden underneath the layers of leather, and the rising heat and length of his erection is impossible to mistake.

"No games with me, Swan. Not now, not tonight; is this what you really want? I don't think I'll be able to stop-" She presses her fingers against his lips.

"I'd kick your ass if you tried to stop. Kiss me, Jones; make me forget this is the wrong time and the wrong place, because despite trying to fight myself and what I want, this feels too damn right." She pulls his face back down to hers, meeting his mouth with a greedy, lust-fired kiss. Tongues cross like swords, only this battle is over who can give the other the most pleasure, who can wring the most moans and low sounds of desire out of the other. She feels the tip of his hook dig lightly into her back, a cold, steely reminder of the double-edged blade that is Killian Jones—pleasure and pain wrapped in one dangerous, irresistible package. She arcs her whole body into him, writhing against him sinuously; she can't get close enough, and yet too much is in the way.

But just like when they fight, they read each other and work as a team. When his hand slips down her ass to the back of her thigh, she moves with him, wrapping her legs around his waist as he lifts and starts walking forward. He firmly pushes her back against the nearest tree, grinding his hips into her and making her break from the kiss to come up for air. He trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw and neck while she slips the coat from his shoulders and works on his belt and the laces of his trousers. She smiles at the moan the ripples through his whole body when she finally wraps her hand around his shaft and strokes the velvety, hot skin. She grabs his chin with her other hand, forcing his mouth back to hers and sucking on his soft lower lip.

But she's forgotten what a nimble-fingered thief he can be, until his fingers are teasing her through her lacy panties. Emma moans into his mouth while her hips arc forward, increasing the pressure of his hand right where she needs it. He chuckles, easily brushing aside that bit of fabric and sliding one finger inside her. He swallows down the little mewls of pleasure she makes, ravishing her mouth as she rides his hand. He adds a second and feels the electric shock that runs through her, as with every thrust, one of his rings stimulates the swollen bud of her clit. Killian pulls back, just enjoying seeing her come apart like this, giving in to the wild, abandoned sensations that he's lavishing on her. She throws back her head, uncaring that she's backed against a very solid tree. "Is that all you've got? Damn it, Jones! Stop playing and fuck me!"

Her eyes are hazy with lust, and he knows instinctively just how close she is to that edge she wants to fall from. Her whole body thrums with it, but it's more than that—it's in her voice and the way her movements on his fingers have changed. "Gods, woman! Do you have any idea how much I bloody love it when you tell me what to do? But I'll do you one better, Swan, than a mindless tup against a tree."

Without any more warning than that, he sets her on her feet and strips her bare in seconds and tosses his shirt onto the pile of her clothes. He wraps her around him again, kneels down on his coat, captures her lips with his, and thrusts deep inside her. Emma doesn't think, she just feels, just reacts; she starts riding him, heels digging into his ass that still encased in leather. She feels achingly stretched and full, but it's a sweet, sensual sort of pain. And from the sounds of things, Killian feels the exact same way; his breath is coming in startled pants, whimpers and moans pouring out of his throat as he cannot deny on any level what she does to him. "Fuck me, lass! You're bloody—fucking—damn it! Where's an adjective when I need one?! You deserve everything that I can't give you right now, love. Slow, tender wooing; rose petal-strewn silk sheets; candlelight, firelight, and wine. By all that's holy I'll give you them all one day, lass!"

"I'm not a fragile china doll, Killian. I'm not a princess." She gasps as he thrusts up hard, grinding forcefully into her. Without missing a beat, he lays her down on his coat. "Did you just growl at me?!"

"Indeed. You don't deserve any of those things because of the title you were born with. You deserve gentle, persuasive seduction because you are Emma Swan; you are beyond words, love. Every time I think you've bested yourself and that you couldn't possibly be any stronger, any more stubborn, any more beautiful, any more amazing… You surpass yourself. You fascinate and enchant me, sweet Emma. Even more so because you hide your beauty and all your softness behind a steel spine and high walls. You are one hell of a woman, love."

She cries out when he shifts to just the right angle, throwing one of her legs over his shoulder and hitting that sweet spot with every pump of his hips. She thought she couldn't be wound any tighter, couldn't have this much pressure coiled low in her belly; but every time she gets close, when that glorious, shimmering orgasm is almost touchable, Killian slows down and pulls her back. It's a fantastic, drawn-out tease of her senses, skirting the fine line between fucking and making love. Her body has never felt so used and yet so satisfied, even without having come yet. She doesn't even have a name for all the ways he moves her body, for all the ways he ravishes and then cherishes her. It's like a drug, this burning for him under her skin that he keeps feeding and just won't stop.

When she rises above him, hips meeting his in perfect harmony, he knows with deep certainty that he belongs to her irrevocably. His body and soul and heart all belong to Emma, and the mysterious smile that graces her lips and dances in her eyes tell him that she understands and accepts them from him. She speeds up their pace, the need to end this, to truly make him hers driving them. He sits up, giving her that extra bit of leverage and friction she needs and consuming her mouth with a kiss that spirals them out among the stars. They both lose who they are in this molten core, this supernova fusion of bodies and heat and emotion. Killian pulls her close, making sure that her sweat-slicked body doesn't chill in the aftermath.

A sense of timelessness, of drifting takes over them—not sleep, but a sated lassitude where only they matter, only they exist. But the sounds of the jungle and the cares and burdens of their mission intrude soon enough. Instead of discomfort and the need to run away, Emma enjoys the playfulness she seems to have brought out in him; he restores her clothes to her piece by piece, each of which she must ransom for a kiss. When they are finally collected and put together, his face becomes serious and he tips her chin up to see her eyes. "I meant what I said before, love. I'm yours to command, and I'll follow you anywhere. I won't deny myself the occasional quip, but I won't allow anything to undermine your authority. And once we get your boy home, then perhaps we can finish what we started here, aye?"

She nods, pulling him in for another duel of lips and tongues. Gentleman to the core, he stops it far sooner than either would prefer, taking her hand and leading her back to their encampment. They have no idea how to explain their lengthy absence, but all three of the royals are awake and unconcernedly discussing something when they arrive, acting as if Emma and Killian have been gone mere moments instead of hours. She looks to him, and he shrugs, giving her all the explanation she needs and none at all. Neverland.


End file.
